Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

  I don’t know what is under her shirt, but seeing the expensive thong as it is unveiled, the familiar style, knowing my name is against her skin—it does something to my heart. It’s not just mine, it’s ours, our labor of love, our late nights, our arguments, our passion. I spread her knees and settle in between her legs, my hands sliding up her thighs, toward the black triangle of lace. I run a reverent hand over the delicate material, tracing the details of it and then down, in between her beautiful legs. I lower my mouth to the lace and follow the path of my fingers, planting soft kisses from her hips to her mound, and I breathe in the scent of her, my tongue moving over the lines of the thong, teasing her through the fabric, a small whimper of pleasure coming from her as I hit her most sensitive places. She curves beneath me, and I hold her in place, supporting her up against my mouth, as I pull the thong aside and fully reveal her.

  I’ve gone down on countless women. I’ve never tasted a woman I didn’t enjoy, and I’ve never met a pussy that didn’t make me hard. But Kate … I don’t have words for the feelings I have when she is open before me, her thighs twisting nervously, the thin strip of her hair wet and matted with her juices, all of her exposed. I take a moment, my finger rubbing softly across her, and I look up, watching her mouth open as I gently roll the pad of my thumb over her clit, her body curving for more, her pelvis tilting, like an offering to the gods. I bend down and feast.

  Chapter 41

  HER

  The light from the fire makes him glow, a god with strong shoulders and muscular arms that pin me down as his gorgeous profile bends over me, worshiping my pussy with his tongue, his jaw flexing, the soft movement of his tongue tasting me in ways that are destroying my thoughts, my resolve, my sanity. God, all of the things I have envisioned, all of the talents I have imagined—every time that tongue peeked out of his mouth, every time I caught a glimpse of it—all my fantasies have fallen short to this, the look of him, the feel of him. He pushes his tongue inside of me and all thought stops, his fingers digging into the cheeks of my ass, his mouth as aggressive as his touch. I don’t need to wonder how I taste, or if he is enjoying this. I close my eyes, release every inhibition, and let his tongue destroy my senses.

  When I come, it is the kind of orgasm that changes lives. The kind where my nails scrape his scalp, my feet flex through the open air, and my scream is so loud it is silent. I scramble for footing, for reality, and in the hundredth call of his name, I tell him I love him.

  He pulls me to the floor, my limbs loose and free, and I watch as he removes his underwear, his cock bobbing free.

  Good Lord. And I thought he was sexy before.

  * * *

  I reach for him, and he lifts and positions me carefully on the floor. “Are you comfortable?” he asks, and I nod, his rug the impossibly soft type that you want to burrow into, one I have spent nights on before, but always in pajamas and never like this—never with the firelight flickering off his torso as he crawls above me, his mouth dropping to mine, and we kiss, this one different than the first, this one gentle and sweet, him tasting slightly of chocolate, each meeting of our tongues stirring my arousal, waking up my limbs, and I prop myself up on my elbows and reach for his neck, the drug of my orgasm wearing off, my body needing another hit.

  Our tempo increases, layers of control shed as I tug at his head, our kiss deepening, his hips lowering. I wrap my legs around him, and a groan rumbles against my mouth, his bare cock hard against his stomach, and when he drags it over my damp panties, my sensitive clit, I gasp against his kiss. He pushes off his hands and sits back on his heels. In one quick movement, he grabs my legs and pulls me flush against his thighs, his hands reaching forward, and gripping the open neck of my flannel shirt, buttons popping and threads ripping.

  A growl tears from his throat when he sees the matching balconet bra, the one from last season, his eyes scanning over my chest. He slides his palms up my stomach and over the swell of the sheer cups, all lace and underwire, his hands squeezing, fingers pulling at the top of it. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, and it is a moment of calm, a moment where his gaze drags over me, from knee to face, and our eyes meet and I’ve never felt so safe, so cherished, so beautiful. He swallows, and there is a catch to his words when he speaks. “I’ve always worn a condom. Every time. Always.” His eyes drop, and I tighten my legs at the vulnerability that crosses his face. “But with you, I can’t—I mean, I can, if it would make you—”

  “I trust you.” My eyes drop to his cock and I can’t believe I’m actually seeing it, the most private piece of him, the beauty of its thick shaft, its lines and cuts, the twitch of it as I watch. I wet my lips. “Please. I need you.”

  He hisses out a breath and reaches down, moving aside my panties, my body lifting slightly off the floor, and I’ve never been so eager before, never been so needy for something in my life. I lift my body to meet his, and when he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, his eyes flick up to meet mine, a silent question coming from those dark depths. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.” The hand on my panties moves, and my breath catches as something—his thumb—pushes inside. He swears, and suddenly, there is a break in his control, his hips thrusting forward, hand moving aside and I come up off the rug at the feel of him pushing, bare and thick, inside of me.

  God, the slick, hard feel of him. The way he falls over me, his hands holding him up, breath jagged, hips pumping. He moves slowly, the first thrust difficult, the second easier, the third smooth and wet, a soft hiss leaving his mouth. I can feel his restraint, the careful way he slides above me, each stroke full and deep, then slow as he pulls out. Each movement gives me all of him, each retreat has my body craving. I claw at his back and beg him for more, and when he looks down into my face—I almost come apart.

  It’s him. It’s Trey. It’s his gorgeous face, that tight scowl when he is concentrating on something, the familiar burn in his eyes when he is aroused, the look I’ve always moved away from, always avoided. Now, it’s more than a burn; it’s a fire, his eyes devouring me, something so fiercely vulnerable in them, a look I recognize because I feel it—the terrifying realization that everything I’ve ever wanted is happening right now. Trey, my Trey, his mouth lowering to mine. His lips softly opening, his tongue against mine, my name a reverent whisper from his lips. His voice is thick when he tells me how incredibly fantastic I feel, when he tells me that he has wanted this for so long. Suddenly, he pauses, only the tip of him inside me, and my legs quake, and I curve my hips up for more, but he keeps me at bay, and there is the flash of his playful smile before it is gone, and he is all business, sitting back on his heels, his hand wrapping around the base of him as he pulls it out and gently, slowly, drags it over the top of me, my clit all but swooning from the slick feel of his head. “Tell me you love me,” he commands.

  “I love you.” There is no hesitation in my words, only the hitch of breath right after, at the moment when he drops his cock and yanks at my panties, his strong hands shredding the fine lace, the ripping sound so raw and unrestrained, a slice of dirty pleasure sliding through me when he leaves the ruined fabric on my stomach. His hands move to my inner thighs, holding them open, holding me open, and he uses just his hips to guide the motion of his stiff shaft, his cock thrusting back and forth across the open spread of me, his grip keeping me in place, and I tremble at the hot, hard feel of him, slick from my juices, rolling with perfect pressure along my clit.

  “Tell me that I am the only man for you.” He lifts his head and meets my eyes.

  “You are.” It’s true. He has been since the day I walked into his building, since I had to move my desk just to concentrate on my work. Since I broke up with Craig in Hong Kong, since my heart hammered in my chest when Stephen told me that Trey wanted to fuck me. He has been the only man for me since the moment he uttered my name.

  “Do you know—” His hands tig
hten on my thighs, and I move up on my elbows, needing to be closer to him, needing to see the hard length of him against my skin, the way he pushes it along my slit, my lips spreading a little around him. He looks so impossibly big, so masculine, so thick and virile, his strong hands biting into the soft skin of my inner thighs, the hard ridges of his stomach as those muscular thighs flex. “Do you know how fucking insane it made me to see you date other men?”

  I look up at the growl in his voice, a shiver of illicit pleasure shooting through me at the possession in his eyes. “Did it?” Oh, I know. I know how it felt when his lips had lowered to Chelsea’s bare shoulder. I know how, when I’d straddled Stephen later that night, all I could think about was Trey’s mouth against her ear, his hand under the table, our eyes meeting for a moment across a linen tablecloth and menus.

  “I used to fake phone calls so that I could leave the room and be alone, get away from you.” He quickens his hips, a swear rolling off his dirty mouth as he glances between our bodies for a moment, then looks back at me. “I would go into a bathroom stall and jack off my cock, imagining that you would follow me in there, and drop down on your knees.” He pushes on my chest, and I move my elbows, lying back on the rug, my legs dropping as he moves up my body, his stiff cock bobbing over my bra, brushing against my throat, and then he is leaning over me, his cock at my mouth, and I open it, my tongue against the tip of it. I reach for it, and he grabs my hand with one of his and pulls it above my head. “Unclasp your bra and then give me your other hand,” he orders, his eyes on mine.

  I do as he says, and a rough exhale falls out of him as I undo the front closure on my bra, my fingers taking the extra moment to push the lace away from my breasts, exposing myself to him.

  “Shit,” he breathes, his eyes devouring the exposed skin. “God, Kate.” His voice breaks, and I look past the bob of his cock to watch the muscles in his throat flex. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I didn’t even … God, I’ve thought about this so much, and I was still wrong. With how perfect you are.” His eyes pinch shut and he lets out a long exhale, a shudder that ripples through his entire body. When he opens his eyes, his control is back, and he nods at my free hand. “Give me your hand. Up here, with the other.”

  I move my hand up, his wrapping around both of my wrists and pinning them to the rug, a change in position that arches my back off of the floor. His eyes dart once to my breasts, then he is kneeling over me, his other hand flat on the rug, keeping the pressure off my wrists, and I watch as the head of him moves before me. “Keep still and open that mouth, Kate.”

  I do, and he shifts, my eyes closing as he lines himself up, then the tip of him is between my lips, softly pushing, my tongue coming out to meet him, the gentle press of his hips pushing him deeper into my mouth. He moves slowly, a gentle dip in and out, his thickness not allowing too much depth, my efforts to take him bringing soft words of encouragement from his voice.

  His movements get a little rougher, and there is a catch in his voice when he speaks again. “I used to fist my dick and think about you on your knees, your boyfriend back at the table, you apologizing to me with this perfect mouth. I thought about punishing you with my cock, making you gag on my dick, pushing it deeper, and coming down your throat. I wanted to send you back to him with the taste of me on your tongue, with your pussy wet. I imagined so many fucking dirty things, so many ways that I would punish you. You drove me mad, Kate.”

  He pulls his hips away, jerking out of my mouth, and I gasp for breath, my thighs twisting together, the need between them too great. My orgasm from his mouth seems hours ago, and I need something, anything, to rub against, to penetrate. “Please,” I beg. “Fuck me.”

  He chuckles, and pushes off the rug, releasing my hands and sitting up above me, my saliva dripping off him, and his eyes flare with arousal as he takes a moment to drag the head of him over my lips. “You are going to be the death of me.”

  I lift my upper body, and my breasts brush against his ass, his knees still on either side of my shoulders. “Fuck me,” I demand.

  His smile grows wider. “Are you sure you want that? For me to well and truly fuck you?”

  I recognize a Trey Marks challenge when I hear one. In three years, there have been many. Most, I have approached with a cautious hand. This one, I grab by the fucking balls. Or rather, by the shaft. I grip my hand around him and squeeze, and the shock of it all is still there. I am touching Trey’s cock.

  He gives one short thrust against my palm, then jerks to his feet, holding out a hand and helping me up. “Put your knees on the couch, hands on the back of it.” The words are hard and business-like, the kind that don’t allow for discussion, and I scramble, my skin hot from the fire, the leather cool as it yields to the pressure of my knees, my hands gripping the back cushion. I hear the slide and collide of metal, and turn to see Trey, bare-assed in front of the windows, raising and locking them into place, a cool breeze immediately entering the room and fighting with the warmth from the fire. “Not there,” he snaps, pointing to the end of the sectional, the one closest to the fire. “Here.”

  I move closer, and when I get back on my knees and tilt forward, I look over my shoulder at him. He’s a dark silhouette before the fire, an outline of raw sexuality, of strong arms and hips, of hard ass and abs. He strokes himself and comes forward, and there is a moment of reverence when his hands close over each of my ass cheeks. “Are you holding on to the couch?” he asks.

  “Yes.” God, I want this. I want him to be raw and rough. He shoves inside of me, and it’s an invasion. There are no slow and controlled strokes, no gentle draws to allow my body to adjust. This is straight fucking, and it is exactly how I’d always pictured Trey would do it—wild and furious, the bite of his fingernails into my skin, the slam of his thick cock in and out, the grunt of him, the slap of our thighs, the moment when he reaches forward, his hands jerking at the bra that still hangs from my shoulders. “Keep your hands on the couch,” he grits out, and he grips one of my shoulders, using it for leverage, as if I am a wild stallion that he is taming. It takes only seconds for me to come, for the last twenty minutes of teasing to erupt into one overwhelming shatter of senses. I claw at the leather, I scream his name, and when my entire body tenses, it is a rolling, tumbling fall of ecstasy that doesn’t stop, the animalistic sounds coming from him, the continual mad thrusts of his body, the jerk of the lace, the assault of cock and balls against and inside of me … I scream over and over, and if this is a Trey Marks orgasm, I am ruined for life. I cannot, will not, ever find this again. I cannot, will not, ever experience this again. There is no way that a body can feel this good, can come apart this completely, and survive. I hover in some plane, some beautiful place where it doesn’t end, where he and I are fully connected, every line of our bodies intact. When I come back to life, it is with a shudder, my arms falling from the couch, my body pitching forward, and when my cheek hits the couch, I open my eyes.

  Fire glowing, its shape blurry, my eyes tearing. Cool air against my skin, yet I’m warm everywhere, his body thrusting, the slap of us together like a chant in the room. He is saying something, something about me, something about love and fucking and how I feel. He is sliding his hands down my arms, pulling my wrists together at the small of my back, and then they are being bound by his grip, a tight hold while he continues, while he thrusts and pulls, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet, so warm, so oblivious to everything but the moment where we connect, the thick feel of him inside of me, the fill and then empty, perfection and then need. He moves me to the side, where my head has more room against the seat of the couch, and I feel everything shift as he climbs onto the leather, my ass up in the air, hands still held behind my back. He pushes back inside and the feeling is different, the angle new, the pleasure a twisted blend of something else, and any coherent thought is gone as he leans forward, one hand playing over my nipples. These thrusts are slower, deeper, more intense. He squeezes my breasts and I tell him he is a god. H
e pulls on them gently, rubs his fingers over their curves and tells me how much he loves me.

  Then, his hands release my wrists and the pace picks up.

  At some point, I am against the last window, the tall pane of glass that doesn’t open, my bare breasts against the cold surface, my cheek pressed to it, his hand knotted in my hair, holding me in place. The other is at my hip, and he moves fluidly and perfectly, not all of the way in, just little notches of pleasure that drive me to another orgasm, one where my legs collapse and he carries me to the floor, lying me on my back.

  “I’m going to come,” he pants out, almost apologetically, as if his performance is weak, and this is his third thrust, and he just can’t control himself. “Where do you want it?”

  “Inside of me.”

  “Fuck, I’m glad you said that.” His tempo increases, and when he comes, he says my name in a way that is almost a prayer, his breaths ragged, his eyes on me. When he gives a final shuddering push, I wrap my arms around him and whisper out everything I’ve never said. How much I love him. How much I’ve needed him. How much, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night, for our entire friendship, I’ve wanted him.

  He falls onto the rug and pulls me on top of him. “Tell me you’ll stay with me. Tell me this is forever.”

  “It is.” I lift my head off his chest and look into his eyes. Inside, a part of me worries. Inside, a part of me is terrified. But when I look into his eyes, when I see the man I know, it all goes away.

  There are few things I know in life. But I know that look in his eyes. I know when he is committed to something, when he is making a promise that he will fight with every bit of his soul to keep. He has that look when it comes to his company, the one he’s risking for us. And this look is even stronger. This look is one dipped in love.